


The Sensual Sociopath

by andmydog



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andmydog/pseuds/andmydog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five (+1) shorts for the five (+1) senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sensual Sociopath

1\. Scents and Sensibility

_Among those who undertake to study such things, it is held that dreams are not mere reflections of the waking world._

It is widely believed that dreams, being the domain of fantasy and imagination, do not allow for the experience of the baser senses. One may observe a dream-rose, it is said, and one may perceive that one's finger has become pricked by the thorns, but one may not inhale the delicate perfume.

Like so many commonly held beliefs, this theory proved itself to be flimsy, easily torn apart.

You could smell, in dreams. Of that, he was certain. Learned men might claim that the odors were merely his imagination, providing a background to his replaying memories, but he knew better. The wet grass of the hillside, the dirt of the courtyard, the closed, musty air of the lower levels. A fragment of perfume, in milady's chamber. Burning bread, burning wood, burning dung, burning flesh in the kitchens. Spilt wine, rice, grape. Spilt blood, thick and copper-rich, heavy in the back of his throat. Spilt viscera, hot and foul, reeking of those smells so often referred to as "earthy". Bile. Urine. Vomit. Shit. The distinct, almost sweet meaty smell of brain matter, congealing in a sunbeam on the smooth wooden floors. Sweat. Fear. Despair.

Fifteen hundred dead, and he remembered them all. His dreams were not all memories.

The rich, soft mud of the road, that was a memory, and the tobacco stink of the one who all but stepped on him, too, but when his dreams looped back around, to the other side of the mountain and he began his climb anew, it wasn't the same. The wet grass reeked of blood; the courtyard, of old laundry. He split one monster shoulder to groin, and the entrails that poured forth were beef ramen. He tore the face off another, the hot blood spattering his chest and throat, and it was tea, bitter for its weakness, not iron and salt, the scent so heavy he could actually taste it. A woman, soft and screaming, crushed underfoot, but her fear-sweat was a man's musk, the clean, heady scent underlain with smoke and wind and soap. He killed them all, over and over, as they bled out antiseptics and coffee, and sweet, sharp sweat, old tobacco, older beer. Dust. Detergent.

The third time through the castle, he determined that he was dreaming. By the fifth, he was certain he'd gone mad. And on the eleventh (or was it the twelfth?) pass, when he reached for the door of Kanan's cell and it faded into a water-stained ceiling, he realized he wasn't that fortunate.

 

**********************************************************************  
2\. Double Vision

_Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see, but only a few can test by feeling._

Even were his injury considerate enough to permit him to sit up for more than a few minutes at a time, it would be a futile effort. The man had no books, and those few magazines he kept scattered about the room promised little in the way of an enjoyable read. The television's functionality was questionable, and again, _were_ it functional, the only options for viewing were videos that sported cumbersomely endowed women in various stages of undress. The window overlooking the bed hadn't been washed in so long that the trees outside appeared mere sketches of themselves, and the man – Gojyo, his name was Gojyo – seemed less than inclined to remedy that situation.

So, necessity being what it was, he watched Gojyo.

He watched Gojyo, and thought about his child.

Not _his_ child, technically. _Her_ child, hers and that monster's, but he liked to think that he would have raised it as his own. _His_ child, _their_ child, intelligent and loved, taught to read and write, taught to cook and clean and the value of words, of ideas. The value of life, hypocrite though that would make him. The value of family.

Not like this man, this Gojyo. The scars on his face were old, evidence of a lifetime of brawling and blasphemy, no doubt. Not like this Gojyo, who paced about the room, smoking a constant stream of foul-smelling cigarettes, without consideration for either the invalid lying mere feet away or the warning clearly printed on the packet, which certainly even _he_ could read. Not like this Gojyo, who wore the same socks four days running and often forgot to bathe for nearly as long, who sat in the corner of an evening, the single lamp's shade angled downward as he read his magazines, lips moving slowly over each and every word. Not ignorant like this man. Not slovenly. Blood-red, yes, but not _bathed_ in blood.

But only too often, that blood was _his_, and he wondered. Would his child have been so quick to act the good Samaritan? Would a child who never wanted reach out to a perfect stranger, take him into his own bed, feed him and wash him even as he neglected to feed and wash himself? Would a child taught the value of pride of property, the benefit of comfort, so easily give it up?

He had to wonder. And, with little else to do, he had to watch, as Gojyo drunkenly fumbled over the pile of discarded bandages and clothing, as Gojyo carefully, delicately spooned out broth and tea and, later, carried him to and from the facilities, as Gojyo slept sprawled out in the center of the room, as Gojyo...

"Hey," Gojyo interrupted, waving a hand through his line of vision. "You okay? You've been starin' at me so long you forgot t'blink. Did ya need anythin'?"

Was it love or rape, he wanted to ask, and immediately banished the thought. No, perhaps he _didn't_ deserve a child. "No, thank you."

But perhaps he had one to care for anyway.

His child. Yes. Yes, he could see that. "Well," he amended, "perhaps some company?"

Gojyo ducked his head shyly and grinned. "Lemme get the cards." His child would never have been this starved for affection, for attention. His child would never have been this beautiful when it was freely given.

The doctor had given him a month. One could do a great deal, in a month. Perhaps he would see what he could do.

There was nothing on television, anyway.

 

**********************************************************************   
3\. Reciprocity

_They're a beautiful red, aren't they?_

On the walk back to the house, Gojyo touched everything but Hakkai.

Hakkai couldn't help but find that odd.

It wasn't that Gojyo wasn't happy to see him. No, Gojyo wore his heart on his sleeve, and he'd been glad to see Hakkai again, his surprise and then pleasure at the encounter unmistakable. And neither did Hakkai feel for a moment unwelcome, not when Gojyo nodded in the direction of the house and started off, smiling and talking a mile a minute.

In fact, Gojyo hadn't stopped talking since the produce vendor's stall, chattering away about events that Hakkai, to be perfectly honest, didn't care about, that had happened to people Hakkai had never met, the narrative shifting to encompass the passers-by. That unshaven young man, there, who received a friendly punch to the shoulder as they passed, he had had a winning streak the last time Gojyo had played with him, and Gojyo had almost determined the method by which he had been cheating. That attractive woman, there, her brother had been ill recently, but he was faring much better now... as was she, thanks to a gentle hand in the small of her back and a whispered word in her ear that brought new colour to her face. A child, unmindful of foot traffic, stumbled into Gojyo, and was sent back on his way with freshly tousled hair. Even their surrounding weren't safe from Gojyo's long fingers. He trailed them across the newly plastered wall at the edge of town, plucked a leaf from an overhanging branch and twirled it a long moment before letting it fall, scooped an unremarkable stone from the dust of the road and rolled it between his knuckles like a trick coin... _everything_ they encountered felt the touch of Gojyo's hands.

Except Hakkai.

So, immediately upon closing the door behind him, Hakkai took matters into his own hands. He touched Gojyo - the elbow, first, then the side of his neck, then everywhere, every inch of skin on the outside and as many on the inside as he could reach - and Gojyo bent so easily into the touch, his surprise and then pleasure at the encounter unmistakable.

However, upon waking shortly after moonrise to find Gojyo snoring comfortably in the middle of the floor, and not in the bed, Hakkai was forced to reconsider. He craved touch, yet he fled from it.

What a fascinating creature this Sha Gojyo was.

 

**********************************************************************  
4\. Secret's in the Sauce

_To his amazement, in the two hours he'd been gone, Gojyo had managed to sully every pot in the house... and several Hakkai was relatively certain he'd never seen before._

"You cooked?"

Gojyo rolled his eyes and dumped a ladleful of something dark and spicy-smelling into Hakkai's bowl.

"Yeah, I cooked. I didn't _just_ live on beer an' bar food before you showed up, y'know." He dropped into his chair and started shoveling food into his mouth. Hakkai eyed the oily mess with distaste.

"Ah, Gojyo..."

"It's not poison or anythin'," Gojyo muttered. "You don't want it?"

Hakkai stretched his mouth out in a smile. "No, of course not. Thank you." He took a ginger sip, and his eyes widened in shock. "It's quite good!"

Gojyo hid his bashful grin behind a snort. "You don't have t'sound so surprised. Oh, hold on..." He pushed back from the table to grab a beer from the fridge. The moment his back was turned, Hakkai bit down on his tongue, hard.

"You want one?" Hakkai shook his head in polite negation, and took another sip of the soup. The heavy, familiar taste of blood overpowered all the delicate flavours, and the sweet chilis _burned_ in the open wound.

Good. That was as it should be.

 

**********************************************************************  
5\. Man from Nantucket

The winded tree groans,  
Thick root deep in charnel soil.  
Call my name again.

Crass mockingbird,  
Taking the song of the springs.  
Delightful duet.

Words are dangerous.  
Only to your pillow dare  
I confess my sins.

 

Sometimes when you come  
You whisper things I can't hear.  
This time, _you_ fuck _me_.

 

**********************************************************************  
6\. Foretold.

He knew the second it happened.

The teacup slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor, and then there were faces, and voices, loud and concerned and _close close close_ and any day other than today he would have gathered his worries and stretched them tight back into his hair

_penance, the colour of atonement, of blood_

carving his face into a smile, stomping his heart down smaller, smaller

_slicing the meat of his face from his bone, the blade of the knife nicking the sclera, spilling crocodile tears, rain over blood, good, good, weep for her whom you destroyed, scream your sorrow for your crimes, and **die**_

but not today. Today he struck out, flailing, blind to those he pushed aside, unmindful, uncaring of what harm he inflicted, for what harm could be worse than that he _knew?_

_I wonder why I didn't know._

_It doesn't mean you didn't love her enough._

Careful what you wish for. Oh, he knew, he _knew_, but he hadn't _known_. A thousand

_bodies, rotting in the spring breeze, sliming the corridors, the flies intolerable_

hints he should have seen sprang to mind. The grey hairs. The tremors in his hands. The confusion, hid behind a smile, and oh, he should have seen. He should have _looked_, he should have _**stayed**_.

Two days' drive here, and how many to run back? He didn't know. He didn't care. He ran, heart pumping, legs pumping, until exhaustion forced his mind blissfully blank

_sweltering on the porch, sun pounding between his eyes, Gojyo pounding between his legs, melting, drifting, burning into nothing and ash and soft, high wind_

except for the voice that never stilled, that chanted over and over that something was wrong, something was _wrong_, someone had taken what was his. _Again_.

He would run faster unhindered. His tiny chains vanished in the dust, and he bared his teeth and ran. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and karma abhorred taboo, and _that_ was a matter he would take up with Those in charge.

Nobody harmed what was his but _him_.


End file.
